


theophany

by clnbd



Category: The Half of It (2020)
Genre: F/F, Post-Movie, Spoilers, kind of like a slow burn, very much like a big three-wick candle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:29:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24034330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clnbd/pseuds/clnbd
Summary: the·oph·a·ny\thē-ˈä-fə-nē\nouna visible manifestation of a deityAster realizes that the thing about God is that she’d never before been given the chance to decide what she thinks of Him.
Relationships: Ellie Chu/Aster Flores
Comments: 36
Kudos: 173





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I needed to see Aster grow and explore her faith, so I wrote it! Probably a three-parter unless I lose my mind and make it eight. All the biblical things stem from my own knowledge with very little research done to support it.

God finished creating the universe in six days. He blessed the seventh day - Sunday - and took rest.

Aster leaves Squahamish on a Sunday.

She works on packing her car most of the morning, the sun warm on her back. By the time all of her things are ready, the tops of the evergreens in the distance have disappeared underneath low, gray clouds. It takes three tries and her mom’s help to close the trunk.

The click of the latch sounds like an ending.

* * *

The first piece she submits in her Introduction to Painting course is a portrait of God in the style of a stained glass window. The second is God - again - this time sat behind a pottery wheel with a rib in hand, caught in the moment before the creation of Eve. The third is of a bird that reminds her of her sister. The fourth is God again. This time checking his emails while the Earth spins on His index finger.

The seventh time she paints God, her instructor writes on her rubric in ruby red ink _What’s your thing about God?_

It takes a while, but Aster realizes that the thing about God is that she’d never before been given the chance to decide what she thinks of Him.

* * *

She meets a boy two months into the semester. He has a nice smile and plays shortstop for the local minor league baseball team. He reminds her a little of Trig. They have the same flashy personality and easy sociability. Aster sees him for a total of three weeks before he invites her to the church he attends a few minutes out of the city.

At first it feels like cheating, attending services that aren’t run by her father, but soon she begins to find comfort in the words and stories that had been such a constant for her growing up. The new voice means the stories are made new. Once the strangeness wears off, Aster takes notes.

By the time Christmas rolls around, the boy is gone and Aster has a marked up Bible and a regular seat in the fifth pew every Sunday.

* * *

She is fascinated by the story of Jacob as soon as she hears it. A man who looked God in the eye. What did he see? 

What _didn’t_ he see?

* * *

**To:** e.chu@gmail.com

 **From:** floresaster@gmail.com

 **Subject:** Congratulations!

Ellie,

Congratulations on your piece in the New Yorker! I expect my signed copy soon, I figure you owe me because of the catfishing.

Aster Flores

316-400 NE 45th St

Seattle, WA 98105

Best,

A

* * *

Paint. Eat. Sleep. Repeat. At first it’s just a joke on a t-shirt sold by the Fine Arts Student Union, but it quickly becomes Aster’s entire life.

Her apartment fills up with pieces in progress. Ones that were good but ruined by a stab at greatness, others that are barely begun but too valuable as signs of progress to destroy. There are stacks of halfway full sketchbooks on her kitchen table and paint brushes in the sink. 

The work is all-consuming. Aster feels manic more often than not. There are many early mornings spent hanging halfway out of the kitchen window in pursuit of perfect light, canvas clutched tightly in hand. Every time, it’s like nothing will ever be more important than the next stroke of her brush, the next flick of her wrist. Her mind takes stock of nothing else. Once, she even mistakes paint water for tea.

It’s harder than she could have ever imagined, being away from home, getting pushed to her limits in every way. But it’s also more rewarding than anything she’s ever done. Positive feedback sustains her for weeks. Negative motivates her for months. The challenge makes her better. It’s all anyone could hope for.

* * *

**To:** floresaster@gmail.com

 **From:** e.chu@gmail.com

 **Subject:** RE: Congratulations

Sent. Debt paid.

**To:** e.chu@gmail.com

 **From:** floresaster@gmail.com

 **Subject:** RE: Congratulations

Debt _partially_ paid. Will accept dinner at Sparky’s for the remainder.

A

**To:** floresaster@gmail.com

 **From:** e.chu@gmail.com

 **Subject:** RE: Congratulations

This would require you to actually step foot back in Squahamish.

* * *

Aster dreams of Jacob more than she’d like to admit. It’s the one constant in her life outside of painting. She can’t get the story out of her head.

Out on that meadow wrestling a tireless man, what did he see? What kind of divinity did he become privy to? What kind of faith was he able to practice after coming face to face with living proof of a deity? 

She wakes up vibrating with envy every time, jealous of the certainty that sight affords. Every time, she hears her father preach, hears him say _believing is seeing, mija_.

After a particularly bad night in her sophomore year, she stumbles out of bed, fumbles open the first sketchbook she sees, lets her hand create the image stuck in her mind.

* * *

Midway through her last semester of college, Aster starts mixing her own paint. The whole thing starts when she offhandedly complains about green always being either a shade too light or a shade too dark to her seatmate in Contemporary Painting. 

At the sound of Aster’s griping, the woman sitting two seats down whips her head around so fast that her ponytail hits the canvas in front of her.

“You wanna learn how to mix your own?”

“Yeah,” Aster clears her throat. “Um, yes. Please.”

Two days later, she’s in a basement somewhere in Tacoma grinding pigment with what feels like a hundred other people. They ask her about plans after graduation, but leave her to initiate conversation otherwise. There’s an old record on in the background that sounds vaguely familiar and the host offers everyone wine and finger food. 

Afterwards, Aster realizes she just had fun at a party.

* * *

**@SmithCorona**

Word around town is that a certain painter is coming home after finishing her degree early.

**@DiegaRivero**

Yeah? And whose word is that?

**@SmithCorona**

Well it’s definitely NOT Father Shanley’s

**@SmithCorona**

Nor the heathen accompanist’s

**@DiegaRivero**

I can’t believe you still willingly return to the scene of the crime.

**@SmithCorona**

Please, it is the year 4 AE (After Easter)! I’ve moved on!

**@** **SmithCorona**

The accompanist who replaced me moved to Spokane a week before I came home for the summer

**@SmithCorona**

… and your dad is paying me a living wage.

* * *

In the end, it takes her three years and an ace of an academic advisor to complete her Bachelor’s Degree in Fine Arts. The last painting Aster submits for her degree is an abstract piece. As soon as she places it on top of the growing pile on the instructor’s desk, a sigh that feels like it’s been sitting in her sternum for the past ten years comes out of her mouth.

(The final tally on subjects is God: 141, Everything Else: 139.)

* * *

There _is_ one constantly unfinished piece.

She finds it while packing up her apartment. It’s from her sophomore year, scrawled haphazardly on the back of a crinkled grocery receipt. She keeps finding it as she goes through her things. Drawn carefully in sketchbooks, doodled in class handouts, outlined in the margins of Art Theory texts.

Jacob’s eye, the figure of God reflected within. It never feels right. Something’s off about the image every time, like the key to it all is stuck on the tip of her brush, unable to find a home on the page.

She packs all of it up, takes it all back to Squahamish with her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've finally finished outlining this story and it looks like we're in for a seven chapter ride. Buckle in, folks!

Too soon, the road and the river diverge and the trees make way to the houses on the fringe of town. _It’s Happening in Squahamish_ , the sign says and Aster automatically slows down to take the turn just past the high school. She takes the long way around, along Main Street where daffodils line the sidewalk and every other house has a willow tree in their front yard. She can smell the rain that just passed through her half-open window.

Early in the afternoon like this, Squahamish looks beautiful. It’s the exact shade of green she can never find at the paint store. 

It’s not long before she’s driving down another familiar street, avoiding the same potholes and passing by the same manicured lawns. The house is exactly as she remembers it, too. The off-centre front door, the sidings tinged green by remnants of moss, the summertime red shutters. Her usual spot in the driveway beside the garbage bin is vacant. Knowing her parents, no one has parked in it for the last three years.

Before she’s even put her car fully into park, she sees a blur shaped like her sister shooting down the driveway in her side mirror. Aster barely has time to turn the car off before Erica is at her window, fingers curled over the top of the glass.

“Aster!” She says, breathless from her sprint, grinning like a maniac. Aster knows that almost the exact same smile is reflected on her own face. It’s like looking in a mirror sometimes. 

She chances a quick look at the front door - no parents yet, thank God - before prying Erica’s fingers off her window and pushing at the door so that she can get out of the car.

“Pushy,” Erica says on a laugh, rushing forward into Aster’s still-opening arms.

“You know, I didn’t miss your sticky hands touching my car.”

“Didn’t miss you stealing my earrings.”

“Jerk.”

“Snob.”

“At least _I_ don’t have the spirit of Frida Kahlo guiding my eyebrows - “

“Shut up!” Erica says, shoving her, still laughing. “Mom says she’ll take me to get them done.”

“You’ll have to go to Wenatchee, the place in town - “

“ - does them too thin, I know,” Erica perks up. “Hey, maybe you can take me!”

Aster pulls her in again, savors the last moment of peace before her parents inevitably appear in the doorway.

“Yeah, maybe I can.”

* * *

Aster has just barely finished leading the prayer over their dinner - pizza from the good pizza place the next town over - when her dad reaches across the table to take her hand.

“It’s all in the past.” he says to her, smiling.

“Oh.”

“Everything, your rejection of the Carsons. Everything. I want you to know, it’s all forgiven.”

“Thank you,” Aster manages, watching Erica and her mom stare at their plates out of the corner of her eye. “I didn’t think - “

“God is all-forgiving, _mija_. What kind of worshipper would I be if I did not follow his example?”

“Right.”

“And anyway, we’re so happy to have you back,” he continues, nudging her mom. “I’ve been telling everyone how happy I am to have her back, haven’t I, _corazón_?”

“That’s true, last week he told the whole congregation,” Erica agrees before their mom can respond. “Aster this, Aster that.”

“I heard.”

The entire table stops.

“From who, _mija_?”

* * *

**@DiegaRivero**

How does tomorrow sound for dinner?

**@SmithCorona**

Great, meet you there.

**@DiegaRivero**

Don’t be silly, I’ll pick you up at 6.

* * *

Aster pulls up beside the train station at exactly six o’clock. She’s not surprised to find Ellie already waiting outside, one hand stuffed into the pocket of a puffy jacket while the other holds a small purse. She’s leaning casually against the backside of the booth, foot tapping to a beat only she can hear. 

When Aster waves, she snaps into motion.

“Got you something,” she says on approach, gravel crunching under her feet. It’s only when she holds it out through the open passenger window that Aster realizes what she first thought was a purse is actually a book.

“ _Never Let Me Go_. Thanks.”

“Ishiguro,” Ellie locks her door and puts her seatbelt on. “I remember you said you hadn’t read it.”

Aster is touched, “I still haven’t. There wasn’t - a fine arts degree is not really conducive to reading for leisure.”

“Neither is Political Science,” Ellie says easily.

She then starts on a clearly thought out comment about the book’s themes, making a case for why it might become one of Aster’s favourites. As usual, she’s spot on and Aster has to clear her throat to refocus after the simultaneous feeling of comfort and horror that comes with being understood floods her senses momentarily. 

If Ellie notices, she doesn’t let on. Ellie is, well, _Ellie._ She seems older, more polished. But four years at Grinnell hasn’t changed the twitchy way she moves or her perfect pianist’s posture or the effortless thoughtfulness that leaves Aster feeling a little inadequate and a lot charmed.

It’s strange at first to have Ellie with her in person. Aster is used to her in her pocket, has been since before she even knew that it was Ellie behind the screen name. In college, when the unspoken agreement between them to keep in touch resulted in scattered emails and messages, conversation rarely ran deeper than the occasional rumination about literature or art or religion. Faced with Ellie now, Aster feels like she’s been thrown into the deep end before she can even dip her toes in.

* * *

“I loved your piece in the New Yorker,” Aster offers during a rare break in conversation after their plates have been cleared away. “I’ve been thinking about it since I read it, language privilege definitely exists in America.”

“I thought you didn’t have time to read?” Ellie teases.

Aster fixes her a look and the hint of a smile crosses Ellie’s face as she takes a sip of her tea.

“I’m serious, it was a great article. Is writing something you plan on doing, now that you’re done school?”

“No,” Ellie says, putting her mug down. “I’m going into law. Writing is just...something I love to do.”

Aster is taken aback, “Law school? Where?”

“Harvard,” Ellie says almost sheepishly.

Aster laughs in disbelief, “So many amazing minds have come out of Harvard. That’s a great accomplishment, Ellie.”

“It’s definitely on every Asian father’s bucket list,” she agrees, cheeks a little pinker than normal. “What about you?”

“Painting. For now. I sold a few pieces during my undergrad. I’m working at Fine Line all summer to save up for an apartment in Seattle come fall.”

Ellie nods and takes another sip of her tea. Aster can practically see the wheels turning in her brain.

“You’ve read my work,” Ellie starts, one hand curling around her mug while the other pushes her glasses back up into place. “When do I get to see yours?”

* * *

After dinner, Aster drives them back to her parents’ house in order to fulfill Ellie’s request. She parks in her spot and heads out back towards the shed where her things have displaced the gardening tools.

“Are you going to murder me?” Ellie whispers as they cross the backyard.

“You don’t have to whisper,” Aster laughs as she unlocks the shed door. “It’s Saturday, they’re already asleep in preparation for a full day of services tomorrow.”

The shed is small to begin with and her boxes don’t help the situation so Aster turns the light on and steps aside. Ellie goes in without hesitation. At first she just takes the time to look, turning her head every which way. Eventually she makes her way to the collection of canvases lined up against the back wall.

It’s less intrusive than Aster had imagined, having her here.

“This one’s my favourite,” Ellie says then, thumb worrying over the corner of a canvas. “It’s...not Jesus?”

Aster smiles, “No.”

* * *

The summer days drag on endlessly. Aster attributes it to the fact that she spends every morning with her parents. They say their morning prayers and have breakfast together as a family before Aster heads into work at noon. It’s suffocating. In a house so devoted to God and his teachings, there’s no room for questions or doubts. Aster’s own reservations get pushed to the back of her mind while her dad preaches unprovoked and her mom reads scripture out loud to anyone who’ll listen. It’s made worse by the fact that she’s no longer practiced in tuning it out while pretending to pay attention. So she sits there, back uncomfortably straight while Erica looks like there’s a movie playing out in her mind.

The nights are, thankfully, more exciting. She’s free to do whatever she wants so long as she meets her midnight curfew. Sometime in June, Ellie and Paul show up outside the restaurant after her shift, looking ridiculously proud of themselves. They take her out to a clearing just past the town limits where - with the help of YouTube, Google, and a firestarter - the three of them enjoy a bonfire. It becomes somewhat of a routine. She leaves her car at home, goes through her shift, and then waits for Paul’s truck on the street outside the restaurant. There are bonfires, game nights at Ellie’s, and movie nights in the Munsky basement. Aster looks forward to it all day.

* * *

When the summer heat gives way to the uncompromising drizzle of rain in late August, Aster packs her things for Seattle.

She sells as many pieces as she can for cheap on Craigslist and stacks her remaining boxes and canvases carefully. With the seats in the back folded down, there’s enough room for all of her things as well as Ellie’s.

They leave town early in the morning and reach Sea-Tac just before lunch. Ellie insists on paying for gas and refuses to let Aster park the car. Instead, they drive the long, bending road of departures and Ellie jumps out to grab her things while Aster flicks her hazards on in a No Parking zone.

“Thank you,” Ellie says for what feels like the hundredth time after she closes the trunk and comes around to the passenger side window.

“What are friends for?” Aster smiles. “Good luck in Boston.”

“Thanks,” Ellie says again, adjusting the shoulders of her backpack. “Good luck in Seattle.”

“Thanks.”

Ellie just stands there for a moment, fiddling with her backpack straps. She looks so young and unsure that Aster gets out of the car and hugs her.

“Text me when you get there,” she says, her arms uncomfortably stretched around Ellie’s oversized carry-on.

* * *

Aster has McDonald’s for lunch and spends the afternoon unpacking in her new apartment. She gets to her small shoebox full of Jacob’s eye just before dinner and wonders how much time can pass and how much can change before an idea dissipates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
